She looked hopelessly at her fan, and shook her head. Suddenly a light dawned in her big eyes.
“Maybe I know,” she murmured. “I gueth I know. He—he’th a really thtate!”
“A really state? That isn’t anything—nothing at all. A really state?” he frowned at her judicially. Her lip quivered; she turned and ran away.
“Here, come back!” he called, but she was gone.
“Ready for the cotillion, children!” and Miss Dorothy, her arms full of long, colored ribbons, was upon him.
There was a rumbling chord from the piano, a mad rush for the head of the line. A rosy blonde, with big, china blue eyes, dragged her protesting sailor-suited partner to the front, and glared triumphantly at the roly-poly couple behind her. They stared at each other desperately—they had had their dreams of precedence—and suddenly, as the robbers stood far apart and swung their arms carelessly high, the roly-poly couple crouched down, slipped between them, and emerged at the head of the procession!
The march began. Dicky, linked to a tomboy in white duck, who whistled the march correctly as she swung along, had fought for a place behind his late partner, and as they clambered into adjacent chairs he nudged her violently and whispered, “I’m going to choose you!”
She smiled shyly.
“All right,” she said.
Miss Dorothy approached with the favors. A violent hissing and snapping of fingers burst out from the line. They wriggled on their chairs. Miss Dorothy paused, threateningly.